


The Side of the Angels

by urcool91



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angel John, BAMF John, CAM is a creeper, Can Be Read As Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Gen, If you have high-powered slash goggles, John might be God's favorite, Mycroft is a jerk, POV Sherlock Holmes, Rated for language and violence, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, Sherlock likes experiments, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 15:50:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 8,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1393441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urcool91/pseuds/urcool91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock opened and closed his mouth a few times. "Are you an angel?" he blurted out. </p><p>"I suppose that's one way of putting it," John said, laughing slightly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The pain lodged in Sherlock's chest was overwhelming. He sunk to the ground, jostling his cracked ribs, but all the pain, the bullet and the beating, was irrelevant in the terrible glory in front of him.

His hand reached out to touch the glossy white feathers. John had dropped to his knees beside Sherlock, folding his wings into a canopy, a shield to hide and protect his best friend. Sherlock could only gape.

"John," he gasped out at last.

"Don't move, Sherlock. Despite the now un-hidden wings, John had the same, grounding voice. "I have to stop the bleeding, or at least slow it down, and you moving won't help with that." Sherlock opened and closed his mouth a few times.

"Are you an angel?" he blurted out.

"I suppose that's one way of putting it," John said, laughing slightly. Then he stiffened. Sherlock could hear, at first distant, then closer, the sound of a helicopter. John straightened, standing over Sherlock like a heavenly centennial as he gazed into the dark sky. A searchlight swept across the alley in front of them and John shuddered, unconsciously pulling his wings inward, towards his body.

"John?" said Sherlock. His voice sounded small in his ears. John let out a shaky breath as the light moved closer.

"Sherlock, you're going to have to trust me. Don't worry. I will get us through this." The beam caught them in its glare. John squinted and tried to shield his eyes. "I will get us through this." John raised his hands in surrender to faceless men. "I will get you through this." John fell limply onto the pavement, a dart sticking out of his left shoulder. Sherlock screamed.


	2. Chapter 2

"What have you done with him?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his brother's first words since regaining consciousness. 

"Done with whom, brother?" he said.

"Don't play dumb," Sherlock snarled. "If you don't show me where John is, I'll find him myself."

"Don't be an idiot," said Mycroft coolly. "John Watson is a threat to national security. Who knows if there are others like him and what they could do if we don't guard against them."

"I'll have you remember, Mycroft, that John when into a  _war_. I doubt that he'd prove a threat to your precious country now."

"Regardless, he is not a natural being. My employees will get as much information as they can out of him, willingly or not, before he is terminated." Sherlock sat up quickly, too quickly, and his vision began to tunnel, but he didn't care. He was too enraged.

"You're going to  _torture and kill him?"_

"Interrogate and terminate, Sherlock, at least use the correct terms."

"Murder is murder, Mycroft. Mummy wouldn't like it. John is a good person and  _my best friend_. After all your meddling, trying to get me to be less of a freakish outcast, you'll throw away the best thing to ever happen to me-"

"I will not have my brother living with a supernatural force I'm not sure that I can control!" Mycroft's face was twisted in annoyance and exasperation. "Come and see for yourself if you don't believe that he's a threat." Sherlock was helped into a wheelchair and led by Mycroft down a long hallway to a small room on the end. Through a large one-way glass he could see John, trapped like a beetle on a card.

John was naked except for his pants and chained to the wall. His huged wings had been unfurled to their full extreme. Large nails held them, pinning them to the wall. The red that stained John's white feathers left no doubt that he was in pain and probably wouldn't be able to fly for weeks. Sherlock refused to think about how John wouldn't have weeks if his brother had anything to say about it. The detective would make sure that that wouldn't happen.

"Why the hell would you do this?" he said.

"Language, Sherlock," said Mycroft. "And you know why this is necessary."

"Why you  _think_ its necessary," Sherlock muttered.

"And I'm never wrong," said Mycroft as a man in a lab coat jabbed John with a cattle prod and the angel screamed.


	3. Chapter 3

The first time Sherlock tried to sneak out of his room, he was apprehended in less than five minutes and sedated. The second time he was more successful: it wasn't until he tried the door to the observation room that he was caught. 

"Don't try to escape again," Mycroft warned him. "I have told my men to try not to hurt you, but accidents do happen." Sherlock just snarled. 

There may have been some truth in the old saying that third time's the charm, because on Sherlock's third attempt he actually got into the room where John was being held. Over the course of four days John had visibly deteriorated. Sherlock gritted his teeth, furious at his brother for daring to hurt his John. 

"Oh, God," John groaned. It sounded more like a prayer than an interjection.

"John, don't worry," said Sherlock. "I'm going to get you out of here." Opening his eyes seemed to take John an immense amount of effort. 

"Sherlock?" Sherlock's breath caught in his throat at the badly hidden pain in John's voice. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock, get out of here. I didn't give myself up to your brother just to have you do something stupid."

"You knew he'd do this to you?" The large breath jostled Sherlock's broken ribs and he hissed.

"You don't seem to be doing any better."

"At least I'm going to heal. He's planning on killing you, John!" For a moment cracks appeared in John's mask. Fear showed through. Then John closed his eyes, let out a shuddering breath c and forced his features back to impossible passivity. 

"Go, Sherlock." The words were soft, but John's tone clearly said there would be no arguments.

"No," said Sherlock. 

"You are acting like a child. I will be fine."

"No, you won't. You'll be dead." Honestly, John was being ridiculous. 

"There are worse things than death," said John. "I already know where I'm going." Sherlock reached out and touched the chains.

"I won't let you die," he said. "We're going to go home." John just smiled sadly. Sherlock knew the angel didn't believe him.


	4. Chapter 4

"Mycroft,  _please."_ Sherlock was begging. He never begged. Mycroft had a hard time not looking surprised. 

"You know why I can't do that," he said.

"At least let me try to heal him," said Sherlock. "He won't live if you don't help him, and you haven't got anything out of him. I know you haven't."

"We haven't  _yet."_

"You won't ever!" Sherlock was almost shouting. "Because he's good, better than a government bastard could ever be. He is an angel, Mycroft, in every sense of the word."

"Then perhaps I should terminate him now."

"Have you listened to a word I've said? John. Is. Not. A. Threat. And even if he was, he would still be a thousand times the man you will ever be!" Sherlock was breathing hard and blinking far more quickly than normal. Mycroft considered him for a moment.

"I cannot release him," said Mycroft. 

"At least let me see him-" Mycroft held up a hand.

"I cannot release him officially," he said. "After all, my supposed superiors have already been notified of the dangerous nonhuman I have captured, and there are procedures to be followed."

"And these procedures include torture?"

"The British government is not always the most logical of entities,"said Mycroft. "I fear that I have made an enemy of John and all other beings like him. However, with a bit of string pulling, I am sure that I can get him moved to a different facility."

"A different- Mycroft,  you're no help at all!"

"Sherlock, listen for once in your life. This facility is, of course, monitored day and night by my most trusted men and women. It is located in central London-"

"No matter how well hidden it is, I will find it. Then I will get him out and incinerate you."

"I doubt that there will be any need for you to find John."

"Of course I'll try and find him! Don't be an idiot!"

"There will be no need for this tediousness, as I am about to tell you the address." Mycroft paused for dramatic effect. "This secure, nearly impenetrable facility is located at 221b Baker Street." Mycroft smiled as his brother's mouth dropped open. "You really owe me a few cases with out complaint, brother mine."

"Piss off," said Sherlock,  but it was half-hearted at best. After all, his John was coming home.


	5. Chapter 5

The first time Mycroft came to Baker Street after the  _de facto_  release John practically ran out of the room, Sherlock was even more acidic than usual, and God showed up.

"How did you do that?" Mycroft was trying to remain calm, which is rather difficult when a tall, burly man with a white beard and an even more expensive suit than you pops into existence with absolutely no explanation. 

"I am God," said the man, raising an eyebrow. "That is all the explanation my appearance requires."

"You really can't be." God sighed.

"Sherlock, get you Guardian Angel here please," He said. Sherlock left the room without a word, maybe slightly in shock, and the sitting room fell into an uncomfortable silence. God studied Mycroft blandly, like a singularly uninteresting bug that had decided to climb onto his noodles. Mycroft shifted, breaking eye contact.

"So we have an agreement then," said God. 

"I still don't believe you." Mycroft sounded like a defiant child even to his own ears.

"What would you have me do? Turn stones into loaves of bread, perhaps? Replicate one of the plagues on your country?" God smiled just slightly. "No. You shouldn't put me to the test. It would only end badly for you."

"Why are you here?"

"Surely you have guessed." God stood, and Mycroft flinched slightly, but He only walked over to the window and looked out. "You've put yourself into an awkward position, my son. On one hand, you badly hurt one of my d invest angels. One the other hand..." The smile was full-blown now and completely genuine. Mycroft was baffled. "I must say I'm proud of you. To compromise your idol, even for your brother, is no small feat."

"I'm sorry, my what?"

"Your idol, your government." God gestured carelessly. "It's of no consequence how you phrase it. But I am proud of you. That is why I am going to only warn you this time." He turned to Mycroft. "If you ever hurt one of my Angels again, I will not hesitate to Damon you to the eternal flames of Hell. My Angels are put where they are for a reason."

"So John's purpose really is to protect Sherlock? No ulterior motive from on high?"

"Well, safe is a relative term. Your brother will die eventually, as all men do. But he will be saved from the fires of Hell. I've never known John to fail in that." God looked at His wrist, which was completely devoid of a watch or anything at all. "It has been a pleasure speaking with you again, Mycroft. I will come again, say, Tuesday at 4:00 in the afternoon."

"I have a meeting-"

"You won't," said God. "The German ambassador will call and cancel tomorrow."

"All right..."

"Good." God turned toward the staircase. "Keep those two out of trouble, John."

"I'll do my best, sir," said John,  emerging with his wings half unfolded. God gave Mycroft a truly frightening private eyeroll.

"You'd think that the Angel who personally went toe-to-toe with Lucifer would have a bit more confidence in his own abilities," said God.

"I'm sorry, my Lord," said John,  "but these are Holmeses."

"Hmm, I can see your point." With that, God vanished into thin air. Sherlock stared disbelievingly at the spot where He had been."

"What was that?" he said.

"That," said John with a sigh, "was my boss. Tea?"


	6. Chapter 6

"John! I'm bored!" To Sherlock's credit, it had been three very long weeks of constant surveillance and no cases as John had healed. For the first week and a half Sherlock had been attentive, the memory of John's torture fresh and horrifying, but not even his friend's continued pain could keep the boredom at bay for long. So he had occupied himself with some experiments on the probability of Sweeny Todd, but even cooking human body parts into various dishes lost its allure after a while. Besides, he had been itching to test John's limits ever since he'd first glimpsed the wings in the dark alleyway.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" said John. Sherlock leaped up from his corpse-like position on the couch.

"John! Yes! I'm bored."

"Well, what a surprise," said John dryly.

"I want to do an experiment." John's jaw set. "It won't be like Mycroft. It won't hurt."

"Well, forgive me if I'm not exactly enthusiastic about you poking and prodding me like a caviar."

"I just want to study your wings," Sherlock whined. "Would you rather have me shooting the walls again?"

"God forbid," said John, only half serious. "Fine, what do I do?"

"Take off your shirt." John rolled his eyes as he did so. Most of the smaller confusions that had covered him had already disappeared, and the larger ones were scanned and puckered, obviously still painful to the touch. But to Sherlock's surprise there was no sign of wings on John's back, just a pair of parallel scars that extended down from his shoulder blades and disappeared below the band of his jeans.

"Where are your wings?" said Sherlock. 

"Under my magical angel skin," said John. Then his back began to bulge outward, until the skin split bloodless and his huge huge white wings unfolded. John beat them a few times, wincing as they pulled at the half-healed holes, then spread them out fully. Sherlock felt his breath catch in his throat. Near the base of the left wing, mirroring his shoulder wound exactly, was a large patch of pale, sickly looking skin with no feathers covering it. Sherlock reached out to touch it, but he stopped.

"You didn't get this in Afghanistan," he said. John shook his head, standing straight and so tense that his primary feathers were quivering. "How?"

"When Lucifer and the others rebelled, God sent out a small force, led by Michael, to try to take them down. A fight broke out. In the end it was Michael and I against Lucifer. I... get hit." Sherlock nodded. "Michael managed to defeat him and get me out of there before I was completely destroyed."

"Destroyed?"

"Obliterated. Erased from reality. It had happened before."

"So when you said 'Please, God, let me live'..." John nodded.

"I meant it quite literally." Sherlock was silent for a minute, sifting his fingers through John's feathers in something almost like wonder.

"What happened then?" he said.

"I was too injured to keep being an Archangel," he said, "so I became a Guardian." Sherlock sighed and regretfully distanced his fingers from the feathers of the angel.

"Do you need me for anything more?" said John. Sherlock shook his head.


	7. Chapter 7

"John, what are you doing?" said Sherlock. John grimaced and beat his wings, causing another cascade of feathers to float onto the sofa.

"I'm molting, apparently," he said. Sherlock grinned, picking up a few feathers and throwing them into the air like a child playing in a pile of leaves.

"This is fantastic!" he said.

"Bloody inconvenient is what I'd say," John grumbled. "We're out of milk, and I can't even fold my wings away like this. Lord knows why He decided I needed a new pair."

"Your new ones will be different?"

"Yep. Sometimes they're just a different color, sometimes a different shape. I molted after I got injured and changed from an Archangel to a Guardian."

"Why would you be any different?" John shrugged and tried for a smile. It came out as more of a grimace. 

"Heaven can't be protected by wounded, imperfect Angels," he said. "I was a liability."

"Why couldn't God just heal you? He's God,  for God's sake!"

"It's not like that. He- Look," John turned from Sherlock, "Lucifer wasn't meant to be like he turned out to be. Neither was I. But when God creates rules, He sticks with them for the moat part. I wasn't worth a miracle. Evil has a way of twisting things that were meant to be good and turning them into weapons and temptations. God could change it, but He wants us to make our own decisions and then deal with the consequences." Sherlock thought for a moment, twirling a molted feather between his fingers.

"God's an idiot," he said finally, clearly having decided that this was an indisputable fact. 

"Practically everyone is to you," said John.

"No, really, He is. What else would He have you suffer for doing the right thing?" John smiled sadly.

"You'd better not say that to His face," he said. "I mean, He already knows, but still..." John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Besides, I made my decision, and I wouldn't change it for the world."


	8. Chapter 8

The second time Mycroft came to Baker Street, Sherlock was obsessed with a case and everything very quickly fell apart. The first thing that Mycroft noticed were the wings.

"Why are your wings..." He trailed off.

"Different? Big? Obnoxiously gold?" John grinned and gave them a flap. "I don't know. Apparently God decided I needed wings that weren't the standard Guardian ones." Despite John's teasingly critical tone, Mycroft couldn't help but be impressed. The new wings seemed to be made out of pure gold, each feather fitting seamlessly over the other like armor. The light blunted off their sharp edges dangerously, and all Mycroft could think was that John looked every inch a soldier- a warrior. He cleared his throat. 

"They are impressive," he said blandly as he turned to his brother. "Sherlock, what have you done?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, " Sherlock sniffed. Mycroft ground his teeth.

"Don't try to be clever with me," he said. "It doesn't work. Now, explain why you have decided to attract the attention of the most dangerous man alive in London."

"Oh brother mine, don't I always have your attention?" said Sherlock with a waspish grin. "Now I feel neglected."

"This is no laughing matter, Sherlock. You know what Charles Augustus Magnussen is capable of and the consequences if you become involved with him."

"If I don't stop him, who will? You and your minions have been so cooperative, after all, playing right into his hands-"

"Do you think I have a choice? His specialty is blackmail, Sherlock,  and he will not hesitate to ruin anyone who is idiotic enough to stand in his way."

"Well, I'm glad to know that power is more important to you than the safety of England."

"Don't pull the Queen and Country card on me; I know you're just fascinated by him."

"Fascinated? Perhaps, but I'm also repelled, Mycroft, and at least I'm concentrating on locking him up instead of contentedly watching him spread chaos from my dinner seat."

"Are you a complete imbecile? I am doing all I can while still preserving my job and my skin."

"Your excuses are extremely pathetic."

"Have you even considered what the consequences of your meddling could be, Sherlock? Have you considered what could happen to John if the most dangerous blackmailed in London finds out what he is?" John flinched, his feathers tinkling like windshield, and Sherlock had the good grace to look perturbed. "If you continue, Magnussen will find out, and when he does he won't hesitate to use John against you. He'll threaten him, out him as an Angel, torture him-"

"You're one to talk."

"He'll make what I ordered look like kindness!" Mycroft was almost shouting, frustrated with Sherlock's stupidity and scared beyond anything he had ever felt before for his little brother. "He is completely ruthless, Sherlock, and will atop at nothing to make you into his puppet. John is a weakness, and since I know he is incapable of of being able to leave, I am demanding that you back off this case immediately." One look at John's stricken, angry expression caused Mycroft's heart to almost stop. He didn't know how, but somewhere he had went too far."

"Is that really what you think of me?" John's voice was a deadly calm, and Mycroft felt his neck pickle. "You do realize that I don't have to be here. I could do the normal thing, be the little Angel on his shoulder, but I don't. The only reason I am here at all, saving your ridiculous brother's life making sure he sleeps and eats, is because I decided to." John took a deep, calming breath that only made him more frightening. "Whatever you do to me, Mycroft,  don't you dare claim I don't care."

"I never said you didn't!"

"You think I can't leave when, really, I'm fully capable of leaving, I'd just rather rip my own arm off or go toe to toe with Lucifer sans backup than do so." Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. "I am not a weakness. I may be his friend, I may be a convenient target for the villain of the week, and I may be scared to death of what Magnussen could very well do to me, but I refuse to be weak and tell my charge to 'back off' of evil."

Mycroft actually took a step back. He couldn't help it. Despite the wings, despite all he knew John to be capable of, even John the warrior had been safely beneath him. But now Mycroft could see that beneath the jumpers and genuine goodwill was a steel core that would never bend, not to him, not to Sherlock, not even to God Himself. 

"John..." said Sherlock. John blinked and the steel was gone, required under smiles and wool.

"Sorry," he said, giving Mycroft a sheepish grin. "I guess I'm just stressed. This case, you know."

"No need, Dr. Watson," said Mycroft,  hoping that none of his fear bled into his voice. "I apologize for the assumption." Only Sherlock could notice the slight trembling of his right hand as he clutched his umbrella.


	9. Chapter 9

"Damn, damn, DAMN!" A box of microscope slides crashed against the smiley face on the wall as Sherlock melodramatically flung himself across the sofa. John looked up from his perch on the overstuffed armchair.

"Language," he said mildly. Sherlock glared at him.

"I would have had him," he said. "He was was within my grasp. But now he's gone, disappeared into the woodwork, hiding behind the people he's blackmailing..."

"I'm sure something will turn up," said John, going back to his newspaper.

"He has all of London to hide in, its not like he'll knock on the door and ask for tea-" Sherlock's tirade was cut short by a knock on the door. "That had better be Lestrade," he muttered. "The door's unlocked! You can come in!" Only at John's sharp intake of breath did Sherlock twist his head to look at the door. In an instant he had scrambled off the sofa. Framed in the doorway was Magnussen.

"My apologies, Mr. Holmes," said Magnussen in a soft, slightly accented voice. "I did not realize you would not be expecting me. If there would be a better time..." Despite addressing Sherlock, Magnussen's dead, fish-like eyes never left John. They slid over to the side, to his wings, and Magnussen smiled slowly as John instinctively pulled them in.

"No," said Sherlock sharply, "now is fine. Q hype are you here?" Magnussen paid him no mind. He swept in, sitting back in Sherlock's chair and crossing his legs, the picture of ease. "Your purpose," said Sherlock tightly.

"Do sit down, Mr. Holmes. No? Well, suit yourself. I am here, Mr. Holmes, because you possess a rather interesting... friend."

"And why would that concern you?" Magnussen's lips rose into a lifeless smile.

"I am a businessman, Mr. Holmes, acquiring assets, and your... friend has caught my interest."

"I'm not interested," said John as he got up and deliberately turned toward the kitchen, away from Magnussen. "Tea?" In an instant Magnussen stood and strode across the living room, grabbing the top edge of John's left wing. John froze,  and Magnussen released his hold, letting his hand instead rest heavily on John's wing.

"Good birdie," he said silly. His hand slipped through the golden feathers, leaving glistening trails of sweat behind. "You are fascinating, you know. It's enough to make even a moral man like me want you under his thumb." Magnussen clenched onto a handful of feathers, twisting. Sherlock let out a short, strangled sort of yell, but he couldn't move. "So many pressure points to exploit. I almost want to bring your life down around you just to see how pretty you break. I won't, of course. Not yet. You're far too valuable to waste purely on my own entertainment." Magnussen pulled, plucking a feather from John's back. John almost trembled as Magnussen held the feather up to the light, considered it, then brought it to his lips with a smile before tucking it into his breast pocket.

"Are we done?" said John,  but Magnussen ignored him, turning instead to Sherlock. 

"Consider this your warning," he said. "You could, of course, continue, but..." He smiled at John like a well-fed cat. "I don't believe you would enjoy the aftermath." With that he exited the room. The moment he was out the door Sherlock unfreeze and raced over to his friend.

"Are you all right?" John just trembled and shook his head.


	10. Chapter 10

"He threatened John." My croft sighed. His brother's angry phone call was both expected and entirely unwelcome.

"I did try to warn you," said Mycroft,  as much as he knew it wasn't the time.

"You didn't warn me about this! He  _hurt_ him, Mycroft. He touched his wings and stole a feather, the slimy got, and said he was curious about how he would b- break." Only Mycroft,  and perhaps John,  could have ever detected the tremor in the last word.

"Sherlock, calm down."

"If he touches John again I will kill him." Watching his brother lose control was like watching a train wreck, or one of those ludicrous superhero movies his PA enjoyed. It was horrible and improbable and dangerous, yet he couldn't pull away. 

"It's what he does. You can't allow him under your skin, it's what he wants."

"He's a blackmailer. He shouldn't have to resort to such disgusting tactics. Why would he do that?"

"Because he can, Sherlock," said Mycroft. "Because he likes to show exactly how much power he has over you and how helpless you are to resist while he has control over what you aren't willing to risk. You won't be able to stop it. He adores that power."

"He is repulsive," said Sherlock flatly. "I don't think I have ever loathed anyone more."

"An understandable reaction."

"He will suffer for this. I don't give a damn what I have to do, he will be brought to justice for what he threatened to do to John." For a moment Mycroft could feel his brother slipping away, leaving logic and safety behind for the messy business of emotions that could only end in Sherlock's heart inevitably shattering. The thought terrified Mycroft,  made his grip on his mobile tighter as though he could tether his brother to him through their slight connection.

"Sherlock, try to be logical," Mycroft said. "John is mp 're than capable of taking care of himself. You will only complicate the matter if you insist on making this personal."

"Magnussen was the one who made this personal," Sherlock hissed. "If you won't help me, I'll just-"

"Of course I will assist as best I can." That fact that Sherlock was requesting his assistance at all was a cause for concern and pointed even more toward his reckless emotional entanglements. But Mycroft could hardly refuse. It was, after all, quite impossible not to care for one's own brother at least at some level. 

"Good," said Sherlock.  "I'm glad we understand each other. Maybe, if you're very helpful, I'll begin to forgive you for hurting him so badly." Mycroft sighed. As much as he regretted the necessity of taking action against John and sympathized with Sherlock's anger, the dramatically were really beginning to get old.

"Sherlock, can't you drop this childish grudge. I will admit that I made a mistake-" Sherlock snorted and Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I made a mistake, but Magnussen should be your sole focus now. Don't have this all fail because you can't see beyond such petty matters of the past."

"John is still recovering from you. I may not have focus to spare, but if he is hurt in any way because of you, I will hold you fully and personally responsible. And trust me, brother mine, you will regret it if I do." Mycroft closed his eyes and massaged his temples.

"I understand," he said. "I expected no less from you, Sherlock, not now that you've decided to care." He said 'care' the way another person might have said 'scat kink': with utter revulsion. "I will do my best." Aherlock hung up and Mycroft sighed again. This caring lark of his brother's seemed serious. 


	11. Chapter 11

For the next few days Sherlock alternated between frenzied work and paralyzing worry that caused him to follow John around like a tall, frightening puppy. In the end John had to actually tell Sherlock to lay off.

"Crazy as it seems," he said, "I don't like being stalked by the guy I'm supposed to be guarding. I need some space, Sherlock." Sherlock's lips tightened, but he stayed silent. John sighed. "Look, just give me an afternoon to myself, okay? Go annoy Lestrade or whatever it is you do in your spare time, and I'll fly around London."

"But Magnussen might-" John cut Sherlock off.

"It's not as though he can get me when I'm several miles up in the air," said John dryly. "It'll be fine, Sherlock."

"No it won't be," said Sherlock sulkingly. John rolled his eyes and spread his golden wings.

"Just don't worry about me," he said as he opened the window and jumped out. Sherlock looked out just in time to see John swoop up the narrow alley and into the cloudy London sky.

Sherlock threw himself onto the couch with a dramatic flower aimed at the innocent ceiling. He was not stalking or overreacting! This was simply the logical course of action when a dangerous blackmailer threatened your guardian angel! Admittedly, there was very little logic in that sentence, but Sherlock was living in a topsy-turvy world of misrule. He could afford to bend the rules of logic when they didn't seem to apply.

Sherlock closed his eyes, relaxing into his prayer-like thinking pose. Si much had happened over the last few days- the threat, his conversation with his brother, the pull of the Work, his (perfectly justifiable) fear for John- that it all seemed one big blur, unable to be categorized and filed away  in his mind without him giving it his full attention.  John would be safe in the air, of course he would be, so Sherlock was able to afford an hour toot two to order his thoughts and process all the events and data.

The interaction with Magnussen, distasteful as it was, went to the lab for further analysis. There's conversation with Mycroft as well as his messy emotions, as tangled as the ridiculous fairy lights that John had insisted on last Christmas, went to the small closet where he stuffed everything he was determined not to think about. Interactions with John were placed carefully by the Union Jack pillow that stood on the window seat...

Sherlock stiffened the moment the damp hands gripped his shoulders. "Oh, don't stop thinking on my account, Mr. Holmes," said the adder-laced voice.

"Magnussen," said Sherlock. He didn't bother opening his eyes and kept his breathing carefully even, but Magnussen's hands still twitched in amusement at his obvious discomfort. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Can't this simply be a social call?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Ah. I see that you will insist on doing this the difficult way."

"The difficult way?" Sherlock winced slightly as Magnussen pulled his hair- hard.

"You didn't listen," Magnussen whispered, lips nearly kissing Sherlock's ear. "I told you to stay out of my affairs, but you kept investigating." Another pull, another wince. "Let's change that, shall we?"

"What's your threat this time?" said Sherlock. 

"Not a threat, Mr. Holmes, never a threat. Consider it instead a promise. At this moment photographs are being taken of Dr. Watson. Should you continue still, they will be placed on the front page of every newspaper in England. And if that is not enough to dissuade you," Magnussen chuckled slowly, humorlessly, "I am sure that I can arrange for other unfortunate things to befall him, yes? The streets of London are so unsafe since you have been concentrating on me." Sherlock's jaw clenched. 

"If you do, I will kill you," he said. Magnussen smiled against his ear.

"No, I don't think you will," he said. "After all, you won't have your brother's snipers covering for you this time." It was only when he heard the door of 221 closing that Sherlock dared to open his eyes and breath again.


	12. Chapter 12

"Sherlock, what is this?" A newspaper was tossed over the sample beneath the microscope's lens. Sherlock' s lips became a thin line as he picked it up and stared at the photo that sat coldly under the headline "Mysterious Creature Sighted, Conformed 100% Real." It was pure luck that Magnussen had chosen a photo where John's face was barely visible,  but it also gave a perfect view of his wings that would have been difficult to fake. Sherlock looked up at John. 

"What do you want me to say?" he said.

"I want you to explain these. I know Magnussen wouldn't make a move like this without giving an ultimatum."

"He told me to stop investigating him," said Sherlock. John snorted.

"Yeah, like that's going to happen," he said. "God Himself couldn't stop you from sticking you nose everywhere." Sherlock's lips quilted at that, but he didn't smile. "You should have warned me about him."

"There was no point," said Sherlock. "He already had the pictures by the time he told me. The fact that he's targeting you so aggressively only proves that he unable to be touched by the conventional law. We can either go after him now or have him terrorize us with this for the rest of our lives."

"I wouldn't have asked you to stop, Sherlock." Sherlock looked up and blinked.

"You wouldn't have?" he said.

"Of course not, you idiot. I know how important it is that you stop him."

"It would be perfectly reasonable for you to want me to stop. You should make me stop."

"Should I?"

"It would be the most logical thing for you to do. He said he would stop this if I gave up. You wouldn't be..." Sherlock looked down again.

"I thought you said there was no point to giving up. I thought you said it was a choice, and you had already made it." John smiled wearily. "You're looking for an excuse to give into him, and I'm telling you not to."

"He threatened to hurt you," said Sherlock. "I didn't know- I didn't realize how serious he was, but now that he's-" He gestured to the paper. "I'm certain he wouldn't hesitate to try to kill you. I don't want that to happen."

"I'm the Guardian here, Sherlock, not you. Worry about catching him. I can take care of myself. Besides, what you're doing here, using your talents to protect others- that's  _good,_ Sherlock.  I could never encourage you to take the easy path, no matter how tempting it might look to both of us." Sherlock gave John a glare that looked more like a pout.

"You are far too much of an angel for your own good," he said. "What if you get hurt or- or die?" John sighed. 

"Sherlock, I am your Guardian. I will always look after you, even if you can't see me." Sherlock stayed silent. John's answer didn't give him any comfort.


	13. Chapter 13

To Sherlock's surprise, Mycroft didn't try to contact him about Magnussen carrying out his threat. Granted, he was probably busy trying to hush it all up as a hoax, but Sherlock would have thought that his brother would at  _least_ annoyed him with constant voicemails bemoaning his lack of progress and inability to control his friend. Sherlock would have gotten a good laugh out of them, too, not the least because if anyone was controlling at the moment it was John. 

In a weird reversal of their previous situation, it was John that was following him obsessively, though a lot more casually and at a more reasonable distance. Sherlock complained, of course, because anything less would have worried John,  but it was insanely comforting to have an Angel perpetually watching your back. Besides, it saved Sherlock the trouble of stalking John. 

They both knew it was only a matter of time before someone came after them. Whether it was Magnussen or someone completely unrelated mattered little, Sherlock had a short timeframe to pinpoint the blackmail materials and, therefore, the grounds of arrest. In the end, it was pure luck that he managed to email Mycroft in time.

"Appledore," said Sherlock one sunny afternoon. John's head swiveled from the telly he was pretending to watch.

"What?" he said.

"That's Magnussen's house, his base of operations. If we can get in there, we can secure the evidence we need to convict. Mycroft can do the rest." Sherlock smiled in relief  as he pressed send. "Done." He looked up from the computer just in time to see John's eyes widen and his face pale. Sherlock turned just as the slow, sarcastic clapping began.

"Very good," said Magnussen as though talking to a child. "You have done so very well, Mr. Holmes. Unfortunately, I cannot allow you to enjoy the fruit of your labors." Two henchmen entered the room from behind him, toting guns. John stood slowly, raising his hands in surrender as both men aimed at him.

"Don't hurt him," Sherlock said. "I'll- I'll give you all my information."

"Do you think you can barging with me now?" Magnussen said, the usual silk veil falling from his voice and allow a spitting disdain to peek through. "I gave you three warnings, Mr. Holmes, and you chose to ignore them. That will be at your cost. Besides," he added with a small smirk, "it is of no importance, as you have already sent the files to your lovely  _storebror."_

"Even if you move location, Mycroft will find it easy enough to track you." Magnussen chuckled. 

"Your faith in your  _storebror_ is most amusing," he said. "Believe me, I had hoped you would violate our agreement. It would give me a valuable opportunity to make an example out of you and your winged friend- and to, I'll admit, amuse myself with finding how you shatter."

"What makes you think that I will allow that?" John said quietly. Magnussen smiled, running his hand lightly up John's tense arm and giving his left shoulder a teasing squeeze.

"What makes you think you have a choice, little bird?" John's body shifted forward slightly, a spring coiled as tight as it was able, and then suddenly his wings burst from his wings burst from his shoulders, dazzlingly bright in the sunlight thrown across Baker Street like a blanket. Magnussen stumbled backwards as the wings stretched to their full width. They seemed for a moment to consume the room they occupied, to crowd out the mundane reality as they glanced little golden spots across the Victorian wallpaper. Then John whirled around, flinging the henchmen aside as though they were nothing. He was no mere Guardian now, perhaps he never had been. He was a warrior, an Archangel, and the evil of the Earth was child's play compared to what he had faced before.

"Surrender, or I will shoot him!" Sherlock twitched as reality began to set in, his awe receding. Magnussen held a gun in shaking hands, pointed straight at Sherlock's head. As John registered the threat he seemed to shrink, his wings brought in so that he no longer dominated the room.

"What do I have to do to make you stop this?" John growled.

"You can't," said Magnussen. "You can only go along with what I say and admit that I have won." John's wings disappeared back into his skin. One of the henchmen scrambled to his feet and clicked a pair of handcuffs too tightly around John's wrists.

"Fine," John said. "You win." Magnussen smiled as he strode forward and kissed John's temple possessively.


	14. Chapter 14

During the next few weeks, though John refused to even start to break, Sherlock could feel himself cracking beneath the pressure. What had originally been subtle and nuanced had turned brutal when Magnussen discovered that John's most important pressure point, his sister Harry, did actually exist. Normally Sherlock would have been worried about the fact that God could apparently fake evidence for him to deduce out of thin air  but he was too busy trying to keep himself and John relatively unharmed. It wasn't working. 

"Don't worry about me," said John one evening. Sherlock looked at his friend. In addition to being bruised and bloody from Magnussen's beatings, John's left arm had been broken that day. Though he hid it well, Sherlock could see how much it hurt him.

"He's going to kill you," Sherlock said. 

"And I've told you before that it shouldn't matter to you. I'm an Angel, Sherlock. I already know what lies beyond life, so I don't fear the undiscovered country. Magnussen doesn't understand what I am, so he tries to hurt me in ways that ultimately don't matter at all." John shifted. "Not that I wouldn't prefer to be warm and comfortable. But I can survive this way."

"I don't know if I can," said Sherlock softly. John gave him a threadbare smile.

"And that is why you are closer to heaven than ever before. Everyone, Angel or human, has flaws, but you're overcoming yours." Sherlock gave a snorting grunt, but before he could prepare a suitably scathing retort the door opened and Magnussen stood, smiling, in the doorway. John curled in on himself slightly, trying to protect his arm. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to dart forward and snap Magnussen's neck, but the usual bodyguard had already entered and pressed a gun to the side of Sherlock's head. Pushing his anger down, Sherlock donned his best bored expression. Magnussen went and crouched next to John, who lay propped up against the wall. John glared.

"Are you well rested, Dr. Watson?" said Magnussen. John gave no response, not even a nod. "Good." He took an engraved pocketknife from his suit jacket and flipped it open and shut. Sherlock eyed it warily. Magnussen had uses it on John before, and Sherlock had learned to have a healthy respect for what the ruthless man could do if provoked. He had only mouthed off once.

"What do you want from me?" John said. 

"Open your wings," said Magnussen. 

"Why should I?" Magnussen's knife darted forward, leaving a long, red line of blood across John's collarbone. John flinched back into the wall as though trying to meld with it, sink through it into a room without his torturer. 

"Next time it will be your friend over there," said Magnussen. He smiled as the wings slowly emerged from John's back. "Good birdie." The sweat-slick hands reached out, petting John's wings for a moment, then Magnussen quickly pinned the left one to the wall with his elbow. The knife hovered over the wing as John trembled.

"What are you doing?" he gasped.

"I wouldn't want you flying away from me, birdie. Don't worry. You don't really need those wings, after all." John began to struggle.

"No. God, no!" he shouted.

"Don't fight me. I'm told clipping wings can be a stressful procedure, but it would be better for you if you didn't make it worse. I might just slip-" He stabbed the bald, scarred patch of the wing and John cried out. "My mistake."

"Don't!" said Sherlock. John shot him a weak glare.

"See, Mr. Holmes, even the birdie knows you shouldn't interfere with me. Pity you didn't heed that before it came to this." Magnussen lined his knife halfway down John's primary flight feathers with exaggerated care. Then, in a quick slash, he severed all ten of them down to the quill. Quickly Magnussen switched to the other wing and repeated the slice. Then he stood and, flicking it closed, returned the knife to his suit pocket. He smiled.

"I am sorry," Magnussen said. "I simply can't have you flying away." He turned and left, taking the gun-pointing bodyguard with him. Aherlock flew forward to where John lay crumpled against the wall.

"Are you all right?" he said, only a slight hint of panic in his voice. John turned his head toward him, eyes glazed with shock and not quite meeting his.

"Yeah," said John, voice hollow. "Yeah, I'm fine." He looked down at his ruined wings. "I guess I'm a pretty horrible Guardian, aren't I?"

"Of course not," said Sherlock. "You're good, you're brilliant. You're fine."

"Glad you think so," said John. "But Sherlock... I'll never be able to fly again unless God decides I should molt, and you know how rare that is. It's quite possible that you'll be stuck with a flightless Angel for the rest of your earthly life."

"It'll be fine," Sherlock insisted. Neither of them believed it. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the second-to-last chapter. Have fun!

It took another week and a half for Magnussen to make his mistake. He entered the room that morning with a cold businessman's smile in his face.

"Get up, both of you," he said. "We're going on a little walk." Sherlock quickly helped John stand, eyeing Magnussen with  well-deserved wariness.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock said.

"It is no concern of yours," said Magnussen. "I guarantee that it cannot be worse for you than here." Sherlock had to restrain an eyeroll.

"What a comfort," he muttered.

"You don't know what lies beyond that door. The only thing to do is follow me. You will die, Mr. Holmes, if you stay here." Sherlock glanced over at John, who gave him a tight nod. Sherlock's lips thinned and, acting as a crutch for his friend, he followed Magnussen into the dim cement hallway. Two guards were following behind and Sherlock could see another up the hall. The only warning Sherlock had of what happened next was John stiffening and shifting position.

What followed could only be described as an explosion of feathers and light. John's wings burst from his back, sweeping the guards behind them into the walls. They dropped as though spineless, effectively out of commission. The remaining guard began to shoot at them, but John twisted and-  _John's wings are bulletproof?_ Sherlock thought dimly. Questions ran through his mind too quickly for him to fully register, but John was racing down the hallway to disarm the gunman and Magnussen...

"Magnussen," Sherlock growled. The coward was crawling toward one of the unconscious guards, trying to reach for the gun, but Sherlock kicked it from his fingertips. Magnussen yelped and tried to scramble away, but Sherlock pulled him up by his tie and slammed him against the wall. The rage and adrenaline coursing through his thin limbs more than made up for his malnutrition over the last month.

"Mr. Holmes!" Magnussen said, sounding almost delighted. Sherlock punched him in the stomach twice.

"You bastard," he said. "Give me one good reason I shouldn't kill you right here."

"You can't. I deserve a fair trial, justice. What would they say if the great Sherlock Holmes, so recently redeemed, became a murderer?" Sherlock laughed.

"I don't give a damn about my reputation, Magnussen. I thought you were smarter than that. I've already died once. I suppose prison won't be that much different. But you, no court on the planet will convict you, will they?" Magnussen's teeth flashed and Sherlock punched him again, this time across the face. "That's what I thought. And that's why I'm going to kill you now." He pressed an arm across Magnussen's throat, ready to slowly strangle the blackmailer. Magnussen's eyes went wide, showing real fear for the first time.

"Sherlock, stop!" Sherlock's head whipped toward John, who stood halfway down the hallway.

"You can't honestly believe he deserves to live," Sherlock snarled, his eyes unwillingly drawn to John's clipped wings.

"Of course he does. The only one with any authority over that hasn't made him die yet, so why should you or I force the issue?"

"He clipped your wings," said Sherlock. John shrugged. "He's a monster."

"So is Lucifer," said John. "It's not up to us to say who deserves life or not. It should be enough that God has created them."

"Then why doesn't God destroy them Himself?" said Sherlock. "Why would he create monsters in the first place?"

"Because He cares," said John simply. "He cares and they keep on going, even though they are right bastard." Sherlock considered the answer for a moment. He turned back to Magnussen. 

"If I ever so much as see you in the vicinity of John I will murder you," he said. Then he jabbed Magnussen's neck along the Vegas nerve and dropped the unconscious man to the ground. A quick search of his pockets produced a mobile. Sherlock looked up at John. 

"Let's go home," he said as he dialed Mycroft's number.


	16. Epilogue

John went to his room as soon as they got back to Baker Street, not even stopping to eat or take a shower. At first Sherlock thought that John was just tired, nothing strange about that, and tried to ignore the tension he had felt the moment John was out of his sight. After an hour his nerves won out. He knew, logically, that it was stupid, John was fine, Magnussen was no longer a threat. But Sherlock still went up the steps and quietly opened John's door. He had to see that John was safe to believe it.

At first Sherlock thought that John was sleeping, wings tucked around him like a blanket, but then he noticed how John's breathing was far too fast for sleep, almost hyperventilating. Sherlock loitered in the doorway, unsure if he should enter or what he should do.

"I know you're there," said John, feathers rustling as he rolled to face Sherlock. There were no tears on his face, but his eyes were red.

"Do you want me to go? I can go."

"No," said John quickly. "No, I want you to stay, I just- I'm just a little overwhelmed right now. I'm sorry." Sherlock nodded helplessly. If anyone had the right to be overwhelmed it was John. 

"Do you need anything?" Sherlock said.

"No," said John, closing his eyes. He looked... not tired, exactly, but weary, as though the weight of all that had happened had stretched his so thin an atom more of pressure would break the membrane, pop him like a bubble. Sherlock wished that the empty cavity he felt in his chest was large enough to hide John away in forever.

Sherlock sat down next to John, reaching out to hesitantly touch his friend's wings. John smiled slightly, some of the tension draining out of him. Sherlock sighed, glad to at last have done something right. He noticed John fidgeting with the clipped edges of his wings and felt a new wave of revulsion for Magnussen rise up in him. He reached out and covered the ragged edge. John looked up at him.

"I won't be able to fly anymore," he said. "I won't be molting again in your lifetime."

"I know," said Sherlock. "It's fine."

"It's useless for you to have a grounded Angel. I can go back to Heaven if you want, get someone undamaged to help you."

"Unacceptable," said Sherlock. "Besides, who else would put up with me?"

"Angels are renowned for their patience," said John, but he was smiling. They were going to be okay.


End file.
